


Better with Teamwork

by spinel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cooking, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Target practice holiday gift exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinel/pseuds/spinel
Summary: “If you are going to ‘hang around’ as you would say, then be of use. Can you handle a knife?”
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 25
Kudos: 339





	Better with Teamwork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mia Archer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mia+Archer).



> Happy holidays, MiaArcher! I’m so sorry this is late. I should have had it up hours ago, but as I was proofreading, Hanzo and McCree may have decided to get it on...
> 
> Thank you so much for your amazing prompts! I tried to mush two together: I hope it works for you! Thank you again for your patience <3
> 
> Written for the holiday exchange on the Target Practice discord.

McCree is serviceable in the kitchen. He can scramble eggs, grill himself some meat, and put together some greens when the fancy strikes him.

But making a cake? Or, god forbid, baking _bread_?

“There is no reason to stand guard,” Hanzo says stiffly. 

“I ain’t,” McCree tells him. “I’m just... wonderin’ what’s coming next.” 

Hanzo kneads his little pile of sticky flour and sprinkles more flour on top of it and on the countertop. After a last roll and a pat, he covers the dough with a damp dish towel and says, “If you are going to ‘hang around’ as you would say, then be of use. Can you handle a knife?”

McCree snorts. “Knives make a mess, but I know my way around one.” 

“Then you can chop.” Hanzo cocks his head to the table and points to the green onion, carrot, and zucchini laying there. “As fine as possible.”

“Not gonna say ‘please’, I take it,” McCree grouses even as he gets to work. He does know his way around filleting, but anytime he’s around either of the Shimadas, he feels inadequate. He doesn’t look back, but he knows Hanzo is rolling his eyes. 

Their truce is a shallow one—Hanzo has been with Overwatch for about nine months now, arriving in the spring, and McCree still expects him to have a foot out the door. Him and Genji have gotten into fights about it, back when he still thought the cyborg addled with love, peace, and the monk Zenyatta: but it turned out to be _worse_ because Genji had been rational about his forgiveness, eager to get his monk settled, and determined to mend bridges with his bloodthirsty brother who had shown up on his tail.

McCree still isn’t used to a Genji not driven by rage. He makes himself feel better about it by knowing Hanzo isn’t either. 

“Not just strips,” Hanzo tells him. “As small as you can make them.” Then he sighs. “Please.”

McCree chuckles and proceeds with his chopping. It’s mind-numbing work. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hanzo take out ground meat from the communal fridge and gather more than one bottle of soy sauce. 

“If I may—“ Hanzo reaches over, his arm a warm brand along McCree’s side, and plucks the lone ginger that remains off the counter. Their hips touch and McCree gets a whiff of Hanzo’s scent, something sharp and green and fresh. He wills his hands to be steady: no point in cutting off a finger, metal or no, just because he’s frustrated, god forbid.

Hanzo uses a knife to make very quick work of the ginger: he’s fast and precise, fingers tucked in as he moves the ginger around and chops it finely. 

“Mine won’t be as small,” McCree warns him as Hanzo scoops up the ginger and drops it into the meat. He measures out the soy sauces—two different ones! Why?—and wine, and uses his hands to mix it all into the meat. His fingers are strong and his knuckles thick from handling the bow, his hands wide and callused.

McCree tries not to look, but the kitchen is quiet and there’s only the two of them there in the early afternoon, winter light streaming in from the windows, Hanzo’s head bowed gracefully as he is fully intent on his task. “This is stickier than I thought it would be,” McCree rasps. He’s ostensibly talking about the meat, but really, it could apply to pretty much anything since the Recall, Recall and present company included.

Hanzo huffs out a laugh. “It’s meant to be.” He drags his fingers along the sides of the bowl to try and clean off the meat mixture and cocks his head intently towards McCree. “I see you’re not done.” 

McCree hurries back to his chopping. “I’m doin’ it, I’m doin’ it. Jeez.”

“It’s only because we have to cook the carrot first.” Hanzo adds oil and fragrant pepper to the meat and continues working it as McCree finishes his vegetables off. They don’t speak, even though McCree wants to. But what would he say? _Glad you haven’t left yet, Genji’s happy about that_ or _thanks for savin’ my hide the last three missions_ or _I hate bad weather, even the bad guys stay inside_? Gibraltar is beautiful but it just so happens that Talon has been loving Russia, Bangladesh and south east Asia, and parts of Australia—all buried under either blizzards or floods or fires, which means Talon’s been laying low. Probably moving their bases, come to think of it.

And _You’re lookin’ less like you wanna murder us all, fancy a roll in the sack_ is more a reflection on McCree’s current state then the two-way conversations well-functioning adults could be having. 

Not that McCree has blinders on about either of them being well-functioning adults: he wears a cowboy hat unless someone tells him to take it off and a statement belt buckle. The guy revving his engine goes on missions half naked with a bow and shoots dragons from his arms. McCree truly has no illusions. 

“If you have something to say, you should say it.”

“Just thinkin’ about the weather.” McCree is used to half-truths, especially around Hanzo. Truly, what does one do when faced with the murderer of a friend, only to realise that the murderer is exceedingly competent, repentent, and hot as _sin_? Hanzo’s a stickler for formality and it only makes McCree slouch more, drawl more, and try and beat him on the range and cover him during missions.

His attraction to Hanzo is like a burr under his saddle: McCree didn’t realise it was there at first, because he’s definitely too old for that and it hasn’t happened in a good long while—when people mostly want to kill you, it dampens your libido well enough. Either of his hands have been good enough when the fancy strikes him, depending on what he’s up for. But then Hanzo bent down with a glower to help a kid back on his bike a few months ago, his hakama gaping at the front and his ass perfectly framed in his traditional pants, and McCree took notice. And he hasn’t been able to stop noticing since. 

To be fair, he hasn’t tried very hard. Overwatch agents since the Recall are scarce, and they’re a haphazard bunch. McCree’s not one to judge, but there is such a thing as too young, and he’s not goin’ there. And then there’s old and/or married, and he’s not goin’ there either. So all in all, he isn’t too surprised his subconscious overrode the initial ‘Genji’s killer! Genji’s killer! Genji’s killer!’ vibe. After all, McCree’s a killer too. 

“Ah yes, the weather. Riveting.” Hanzo is dry as dust as he holds a saucepan and impatiently gestures to McCree. “The carrots. _Please_.” 

“I see you’re not gonna lemme forget that.” McCree drops the carrots into the sizzling pan and quickly steps away. It only takes two minutes for them to be done, which doesn’t leave McCree time to stand around and feel awkward as Hanzo shakes the carrots around before transferring them to a plate. 

“Wash your hands,” Hanzo tells him. “Now the work begins.” He sprinkles flour on the countertop and takes his dough out from under the dish towel, testing it with his fingers and slicing a small part of it with another knife. “Watch.”

He rolls the dough quickly into a long cylinder and slices it neatly. He sprinkles more flour onto his sliced pieces of dough and flattens them each with a fist, making McCree jump. “Jesus, Hanzo.”

“We will have to work quickly.” Hanzo doesn’t look up from what he’s doing as he fastens each piece of dough into a rough disk and reaches for an empty bottle sitting on the counter. “I will make the wrappers now and you will fold, so that they keep the flavour.”

“What are we even doing,” McCree finally asks. “I thought you were makin’ bread!”

Hanzo stares at him. “Bread... with meat?”

“Don’t look at me like that, I know you guys have that in Japan, and I know they also have it in Korea—Hana doesn’t shut up about it.”

“These aren’t meat buns,” Hanzo finally says. “We are making dumplings.”

“Dumplings?” McCree splutters. He tries not to focus on Hanzo’s _we_. “Why? I thought you could buy those from the store!”

Hanzo scoffs and starts using the bottle like a rolling pin to flatten each disk of dough into a thin and wide dumpling wrapper. He doesn’t do it the way McCree has seen people use a rolling pin before (mostly in movies, to be fair). Instead, Hanzo rolls the edges of each piece of dough and turns the dough itself instead of moving the pin back and forth. He is fast and skilful, and after he’s rolled out three or four dumpling wrappers and McCree’s watched him in awe he tells him, “Mix the vegetables in the lamb, please. You can use a spoon. It will make it easier for your hand.” 

“My hand’s been in people, it can handle being sticky.” McCree’s thinking of the times his hand (and all of him) had to get up close and personal with entrails but when he looks up, Hanzo is violently red and his dumpling wrapper has a hole in it. “You OK there, Hanzo?”

“Do it. We will need to be quick.” 

“All right, all right.” Hanzo is right, mixing the vegetables in the meat is difficult work: McCree tries to use the spoon (yes, his prosthetic can handle being soaked in blood and guts, but the clean up isn’t pleasant), but after a bit he steadies the bowl with his prosthetic hand and goes to town mixing the meat and vegetables with his flesh hand. It’s quicker and easier and when he looks up, Hanzo’s rolled out about twenty dumpling wrappers. “Done. Why make dumplings anyways?”

“It’s December. Here, let me.” Hanzo reaches for McCree’s flesh hand and gets the meat mixture of it. McCree shudders. 

“Ain’t much of an explanation,” he says belatedly. 

Hanzo looks up at him. “It is almost the new year, and Miss Zhou hasn’t really been... herself. She said she liked these.” He shrugs. “I thought maybe they would make her feel better, and I didn’t want to wait until lunar new year.” 

McCree’s heart swells. “Thatta kindness, Hanzo,” he chokes out. He’s been trying to convince himself that Hanzo’s still chomping at the bit to leave, but that’s doing him a disservice. Hanzo and him may be cut from the same cloth, but Hanzo doesn’t just work with him.

He spends a lot of time with Mei, some on the range but a lot of it off, training with her to improve her aim and exchanging fragrant teas; he’s taken to grumpily meditating with Genji; he has a small space in Torbjörn’s workshop to develop his arrows; and him and McCree pretty much live at the range and in the training rooms, running sims after sims either together or solo, which McCree cherishes because he uses them to develop more elaborate scenarios for the team with Athena. 

“I have made them before,” Hanzo says quietly. “It is time-consuming, but she will appreciate them. Now watch: this is how to fill and close the dumplings. Do it right so they don’t fall apart when we cook them.” He places a dumpling wrapper in on hand, grabs a pair of chopsticks in the other, and uses them to place a small amount of filling right in the middle of the dumpling. He then seals the dumpling together. With the chopsticks. “There. Done.”

“Um,” McCree says. “I hope you don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Hanzo snorts. “Most of your meals are rations, McCree.”

“I can eat rations with chopsticks if need be, Hanzo, but there’s no way I’m folding dumplings with them! Wait,” he says, peering suspiciously at Hanzo’s face. It’s as impassible as always, but there’s a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “You’re fuckin’ with me.”

Hanzo bites his lip and takes another dumpling wrapper. “Maybe.” He does the same thing but with a spoon and his hands this time. It’s just as quick and neat. 

“You fucker,” McCree says with feeling. “Lemme try. A spoonful?”

“A little less if you think you won’t be able to close the dumpling,” Hanzo warns. “And be gentle: you don’t want it to burst.”

“Somethin’ here is gonna burst all right,” McCree mutters. He’s a deft hand once he’s seen something but he still seals the dumpling with his flesh hand, just to be sure.

“Go over the seam again to make sure,” Hanzo tells him. 

“Done!” McCree says, weirdly satisfied. His dumpling looks the same as Hanzo’s other two. 

“Do it again so I can see it,” Hanzo tells him.

“You don’t trust my skills?” McCree acts wounded as he fills and wraps another dumpling. He hasn’t been Blackwatch for nothing: sure, he wears a cowboy hat, but his work is all about precision. 

Hanzo inspects the second dumpling. “Acceptable. Let’s finish this batch and freeze them, quickly.” 

“Wait,” McCree tells him. “Waddya mean, ‘this batch’? And why ain’t we cookin’ them?”

“For them to taste right, we have to cook them right before eating. And Mei—and almost everyone else—is away until tomorrow or even the end of the week.”

McCree winces. “Ah, the holidays. I hadn’t—“

“I had forgotten them also,” Hanzo says. “It’s only when Genji and Zenyatta tiptoed around the subject last week that I remembered.”

“Christmas not so big for you, then?”

“It is more of a romantic holiday in Japan,” Hanzo says. “It is not so family-oriented. But I thought maybe you...”

“Nah,” McCree says. “Haven’t has a family in a long time. The time I sorta did was a blip anyways, I think. This is more the usual.”

They finish wrapping eight more dumplings quietly. Hanzo gives them a last inspection before placing them in the freezer then says, “you can wrap them correctly. Now this will work. I will make the wrappers, and you will make the dumplings. There are about ten batches to go.”

“Wait—ten batches? How many of these are we makin’?”

“Around a hundred dumplings. A serving for a single person can be at least ten.”

“I’m sorry—a _hundred_ dumplings? Are ya kiddin’ me?”

Hanzo isn’t kidding. McCree loses track of time between filling the never-ending wrappers Hanzo keeps on making and making sure the dumplings are sealed correctly. It gets easier the more he makes them, and it’s almost meditative. Every twenty or so he gets a respite as Hanzo take a moment to freeze that particular batch, and at some point he scrapes the end of the bowl of filling and there are only a few left. Hanzo leaves him to it as he get a large pot to boil, and sits intently watching McCree finish the fillings. 

“I see you’re supervisin’ now.”

“Rolling the wrappers out is more difficult.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Hanzo laughs and McCree tries very hard not to dwell on his open face. “How come you can make these, anyways?”

Hanzo gathers the last batch of the dumplings and shoos McCree out of the way. “Get me a plate. Please,” he adds belatedly. The pot is boiling now and he throws the dumplings in one by one, watching the water intently. “After Genji was a difficult time. I did what I did, and I had to clean it up afterwards. It takes time to take down a yakuza family in its entirety—even after I realised Overwatch was helping along.” He sighs. “I had to take a lot of jobs after that, since we had been haemorrhaging money and there was not much left. One of my safehouses was above a restaurant. A Korean one. After that, I picked my safehouses strategically.”

McCree chuckles. “Always above a restaurant?” 

“Or neighbouring one,” Hanzo smiles. “They were always looking for extra hands.”

“It kept your knife skills sharp and your undercover sharper?”

“I had given up the sword at that point, and I was picking the bigger fish. So you are right on both counts.”

It’s McCree’s turn to laugh. “A cook by day and a high roller by night, then! A regular Cinderella.”

“I don’t think Cinderella was a paid killer.”

“Nah, but she shoulda been. Woulda kept things interestin’! Is there anythin’ you can’t make?”

Hanzo looks at their dumplings, now floating in the boiling water, and then at his comm. “One minute,” he mutters. “I haven’t really tried making anything western. Cheesecake and layer cakes, yes, because we have those in Japan. But not really anything French, like croissants or pastries, or Italian like pasta or pizza.” His nose wrinkles. “Those would not be my carbs of choice in any case. Oh, the minute is up—they are ready! The plate!” 

McCree gets him the plate just in time. Hanzo scoops out the dumplings and they are perfectly puffed up with steam, swollen and juicy. He keeps on scooping, and McCree mutters, “How many did you dump in there?”

“Enough for both of us,” Hanzo says matter-of-factly, and McCree’s heart swells again. He really should do something about that—mostly because it isn’t his dick, which is... confusing. 

“Take these to the table,” Hanzo tells him, “but wait! I must gather the sauce.”

“It’s not like I can eat them now, they’re still steaming!”

“But that is when they are best!” Hanzo comes back with two small dishes. “Vinegar and chilli oil. I know you prefer the spicy sauce.”

McCree flails at him. “Gimme a pair of chopsticks and stop talking. Wait—how do you know about the spicy sauce?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “You put that terrible Tabasco on everything, and you steal Hana’s kimchi every time.”

“Excuse me, _you_ steal Hana’s kimchi every time!”

“It is my kimchi, McCree, it is not stealing if I have some.”

McCree gapes. “You make Hana’s kimchi?”

Hanzo picks up a dumpling and dunks it in the vinegar. “Everyone knows I make Hana’s kimchi, McCree. She’s nineteen and a soldier. She’s not going to make kimchi.”

“I can’t believe this. All this time I’ve been feelin’ bad about takin’ some, when you coulda made me my own batch! I’m sure you don’t make Hana work for her food.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Dumplings are better with teamwork, McCree.”

McCree toasts him with the dumpling he just picked up and dunked in the chili oil. “Amen to that. And we don’t do so badly together.” He bites into the dumpling. He tries very hard not to, but he moans. The dumpling is tender, sweet and spicy and savoury all at once, with a lemony soup filling to die for. “Jesus, Hanzo!”

Hanzo smiles. “Good yes?” He eats his own dumpling and leans back with a satisfied sigh. “The pepper worked. I was not sure it would.”

McCree takes another dumpling, and after some consideration, smothers it in vinegar. “That what gives is this lemon taste?”

Hanzo hums and also takes another dumpling. “Your folding is perfect. Happy Christmas, McCree.”

“You’re two days late, Hanzo.”

“Be as it may. I would still wish it to you.” 

McCree smiles at his chopsticks. “Thank you.” He looks around, but there still isn’t anyone. The Watchpoint is all but empty, the sun is setting, and they are alone, sitting at the corner of the kitchen table, eating the delicious fruit of their time-consuming labour. “It’s the best one I’ve had in years. A belated merry Christmas to you too.” When he looks up after having taken another dumpling, Hanzo is flushed to the tip of his ears and he has a soft smile on his face. 

It doesn’t take long for them to demolish the plate. “Fifteen minutes of eatin’ for an hour of work? Jesus, I hope the others are gonna be grateful!”

“It wasn’t an hour, you exaggerate.”

“Foldin’ these aged me ten years!”

“But it was worth it, was it not?” Hanzo says, strangely anxious. 

McCree reassesses, now that his stomach is full: the two of them, together, sitting and eating what he is fairly certain is a complicated festive dish. The dying rays of the sun cast a warm orange glow not unlike candles, on a day close enough to a romantic holiday for at least one of the pair present, and Hanzo’s sitting beside McCree instead of opposite him. 

“You sneaky bastard,” McCree marvels. He may have been Blackwatch, but the sleight of hand of the assassin doesn’t come naturally to him. Hanzo’s ears are very flushed when McCree continues, “Consider me wooed. But how on earth didja—?”

“When Genji and Zenyatta told me they were leaving, as were Hana, Lúcio, Torbjörn and Reinhardt, and knowing Winston doesn’t eat with us, and Mercy was off doing relief work... I figured I would show my hand.”

McCree laughs. “But why didn’t you pick the twenty-fifth?”

Hanzo shrugs, still flushed. “I didn’t want to presume.” At McCree’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “too much.”

McCree leans over the corner of the table. “And what about now?”

Hanzo licks his lips and reaches over to squeeze McCree’s dick through his pants. “Too much?”

“Let’s start with this,” McCree breathes out, and catches Hanzo’s lips with his. They grope at each other like teenagers before Hanzo makes a frustrated sound, pushes his chair away, and straddles McCree. His hands are everywhere: around McCree’s neck, along his shoulders, squeezing his pecs. McCree’s head spins as Hanzo cleverly undoes his zipper and gets his hand right in his underwear around his dick. 

“Yes?” Hanzo asks into McCree’s mouth, pulling expertly on his dick as he squeezes his thighs around McCree and leans into him, tongue hot and wet licking at McCree’s lips and into his mouth. 

McCree grunts, bucks up into Hanzo’s hand, and comes. He distantly feels like he should maybe be ashamed of having lasted less than five minutes, but he’s too busy feeling smugly satisfied. Hanzo groans into his mouth, moving against McCree impatiently, and McCree laughs. “Hold your horses, buttercup.”

“Now it’s my turn,” Hanzo hisses, and presses McCree’s prosthetic hand to his groin. 

“I see how you want it,” McCree mutters. He just grabs at Hanzo through his pants to jack him roughly and Hanzo moans with relief into his mouth. “It won’t get better unless I get my hand in your pants.” 

“Just—keep on doing what you’re doing!” Hanzo thrusts up against McCree and throws his whole rhythm off. 

“You gotta lemme do my thing, Hanzo, come on—“

Hanzo snarls, bites at McCree’s neck and presses up wholly against him before shuddering once and slumping with a sigh.

“I see how this is gonna turn out,” McCree says, running a soothing hand along Hanzo’s spine. 

“I wasn’t going to wait.” Hanzo’s voice is low and replete. “I also did not want to be exposed in the kitchen.” He bites at McCree’ ear. “You clearly have no such compunction.”

McCree shrugs, fitting Hanzo even closer against him. This is going to become uncomfortable very fast, but it’s been a long time and he wants to enjoy it. The Watchpoint is almost empty anyways.

A voice comes over the speakers. “Gentlemen.” Athena sounds embarrassed. When Hanzo groans and buries his face in McCree’s neck, McCree knows he isn’t imagining it. “Winston is on his way, and Agents Genji and Zenyatta have just docked. They have inquired about your whereabouts.”

“What, all of ‘em?”

“They are about a minute away.” Athena is apologetic. “They seem to want to bring you the holiday cheer.”

“That mean they all wearin’ hats?”

“We have to move,” Hanzo mumbles, tucking McCree backs in his pants. “Jesse, come on.”

McCree’s breath hitches and he squeezes Hanzo close. “Gimme a kiss first. And say my name.”

Hanzo snorts and pecks him on the lips. “Jesse. Move.”

“What, no ‘please’?”


End file.
